


Bitter Greens

by stuckoncloud9



Series: A Child Weaned on Poison [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:02:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: Bored, Harley asks Ivy to tell her a story. Ivy recounts an old one.
Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Series: A Child Weaned on Poison [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914298
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	Bitter Greens

**Author's Note:**

> "A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort." - Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

“Work, you son of a bitch!” Harley screamed at the television, shaking the screen violently. “Work! I have needs, damn you!”

“I don’t think the intimidation is working,” Ivy observed from the couch. “Maybe you should try bargaining with it.”

“It’s your hideout,” Harley complained, giving up and crashing down on the cushion next to her friend. “What, you couldn’t splurge for cable?”

“I haven’t used it in a while,” Ivy said, pointing the remote at the screen and switching the static back to an opaque black. “You’re lucky it even has a television. If you want to rot your brain that badly, go find a DVD or something.”

“Oh yeah, let me just pop out to Family Video,” Harley said. “It’s not like the Bat’s on high alert or anything after you _kidnapped_ one of his _bird brats_ _!”_

“The man really does hold a grudge, doesn’t he?” Ivy mused. “Seems unhealthy. Maybe he should see a therapist about that.”

Harley crossed her arms. “Well he’s sure as hell not seeing this one,” she said. “I only take payments in the form of cold, hard cash. Not cold, hard batarangs to the face.”

They sat in companionable silence for almost thirty entire seconds before Harley groaned and fell backwards, her head falling in Ivy’s lap.

“I’m bored, Red.”

“I can see that,” Ivy said, uninterested.

“Tell me a story, Red.”

Ivy glanced down at Harley, who looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. Such bullshit. “You’re joking.”

“Uh-uh!” Harley said, shaking her head. “If I were joking, you’d know.”

“Mmm.”

“Because of all the rolling on the floor laughing you’d be doing,” Harley clarified.

“Mmm.”

“Because I’m _very_ funny,” Harley said, reaching up to poke Ivy’s nose. 

Ivy caught her by the wrist before her finger could make contact, then sighed. “You’re not going to give me peace until I do what you want, are you?”

Harley nodded seriously. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“...Fine,” Ivy grumbled, and Harley clapped with excitement. “But it’s not going to be a good story, and you’re not going to like it.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Harley said, wiggling into a more comfortable position. 

“Once upon a time there were three sisters,” Ivy said. “One tall, one small, and one—”

“Just right?” Harley guessed. 

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Hilarious, Goldilocks,” she said, tugging one of Harley’s pigtails. The blonde gave a loud squeal at the pain, though given that Ivy had watched her shrug off a bullet to the shoulder three days earlier, she wasn’t especially convinced by Harley’s dramatics. “If you’re going to interrupt, you can go watch static.”

“I’ll be good!” Harley promised. “Please, continue with your cliches.”

“Very generous of you,” Ivy said. “The last sister was of completely average size. She also happened to despise clowns. There are _no_ clowns in this story,” she added at Harley’s hopeful expression, “that was just a bit of character building. The other two also hate clowns. Everyone in this story thinks clowns are terrible.”

“They must live in Gotham,” Harley observed. “That’s a popular opinion here.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Ivy said. “The three sisters lived with their father in a cottage out on the countryside. The cottage wasn’t much, but the four had a beautiful garden, of which they were very proud. Because there wasn’t much room in their home, the three sisters had to share the same bed, but they didn’t mind.”

“Gross,” Harley said, completely monotone. 

Ivy ignored the interruption. “Despite the shared warmth of their bed, the sisters were always cold. Sometimes their lips would go blue, and they would shake and cramp. It was worse at night. When the sun set, after their dinner of greens from the garden, their hands would tremble and they would become so cold that they had to sit close to the fire and scorch themselves.”

“Classic anemia,” Harley said. “Greens nothing, those girls need to eat some meat.”

“Summer was their favorite time of the year. The sun would warm their sluggish blood, and they would lay out in the garden like snakes. Their father would roll his eyes as they wormed their way out of their chores, but he much preferred his daughters lounging safely in their garden than getting into trouble in the nearby towns, so he never stopped their summer merriment.”

Harley rolled her eyes. “How lucky for him then, cause his girls are boring as all hell.”

“But as the sisters grew older and more beautiful, they found the surrounding towns had started coming to them. Their jaunts in the sun were often interrupted by boys from nearby villages. Some just wanted to sneak a peek at the mysterious girls living in the countryside beyond their homes. Others, the sisters noticed returning again and again. As years past, they found themselves enraptured by three of the village boys; the tall sister with the broad, strong son of a blacksmith, the short sister with the tan, somber son of a soldier, and the completely average sized sister with the sweet and utterly stupid son of a village baker.”

“Truly a romance for the ages,” Harley said, stretching and closing her eyes as she began to relax.

“Their father greatly disliked the male visitors, but he had never been a brawny man, and did nothing when the boys came by but grumble about the evils of men. His daughters were unconvinced, the tall sister especially being seduced quickly by the blacksmith’s son. On one of his visits, the two of them snuck away from the others to share an intimate moment in the shade of the trees at the edge of their father’s property—”

“You mean they fucked?” Harley asked, eyes still closed.

“Yes, Harley, they fucked,” Ivy said with a sigh. “When they were done _fucking_ , the tall sister was in blissfully high spirits. As soon as she’d finished waving goodbye to her lover, she began enthusing to her sisters about how wonderful and tender getting _fucked_ had been.”

“Good for her,” Harley smiled.

“Her spirits waned, however, when her lover didn’t return the next day. Or the next. Or the day after that. As weeks passed without a visit from the boy she loved, her father’s grumblings about the cruel vices of men started to fall on receptive ears. When weeks turned to months, she fell into despair. One morning, only two sisters woke up in their bed; when they looked for the third, they found her hanging under the tree where she’d given her heart to the blacksmith’s son.”

Harley’s eyes snapped open.

“Right, sorry,” Ivy said. “Under the tree where she _fucked_ the blacksmith’s son.”

“Fucking hell, Pammy,” Harley said, pulling herself upright. “I mean, her boytoy was an asshole, but that’s a pretty intense reaction.”

“Her sisters thought so too,” Ivy said, finally starting to enjoy herself. “But still, the fate of the tall sister taught them caution, and though the sons of the soldier and baker often came to their garden, they were loath to give up even so much as a kiss. The soldier’s son, who had come to deeply care for the short sister, offered to prove his devotion by bringing her to meet his family. She agreed, and when he took her to his family’s farmhouse, she was met with a celebratory dinner hosted by his widowed mother. The rich food was unsettling to her, as she was too used to her salads of bitter greens — but it had clearly been prepared with love, so the short sister ate as much as she could stomach all the same.”

“Thank God,” Harley said. “First time in her life that girl’s had an iron count out of the negatives.”

“When the sun began to set and she had to return home, she gave the soldier’s son his long awaited kiss in the doorway. She danced all the way back to the cottage, and when she joined her sister in bed they whispered all night long about her dinner, and what future the short sister might have in his family’s farmhouse.”

“And then he never came back and she killed herself, because you’re trying to make me wish I was listening to static,” Harley guessed. 

“The short sister went back to the farmhouse the next day, eager to see the soldier’s son again. But when she arrived, all she found was the terrible wailing of his widowed mother. Her tan, somber love was nowhere to be found. When she asked his mother what had happened, the woman wept that her son had been poisoned; the men from the village had just come to take his body away.”

“Oh, fuck,” Harley said. “And the mother blames her?”

Ivy nodded. “His mother’s tears turned to anger as she accused the girl of murdering her son. The short sister became angry too, but not at the woman. She fled the farmhouse, running all the way back to the cottage, where she found her father tending the garden. Screaming, she accused him of finally acting on his hatred for the boys who visited his daughters. She grabbed a pitchfork from the ground and threatened to tear up the garden, asking which of the plants he’d used to kill her lover.”

Harley rolled her eyes. “Sure, directly accuse the murder suspect. That always goes—”

“To her shock, the father freely admitted that he had poisoned the soldier’s son. He tried to explain himself, but before he could get out another word, the short sister had plunged the prongs of the pitchfork into his chest. He was still bleeding out when the men of her lover’s village arrived, and the sight of the girl standing over her dying father only further convinced them of their righteousness when they tied stones to her legs and drowned her in the river.”

“—well,” Harley finished.

“Then the third sister was alone,” Ivy said. “When the baker’s son came to visit, he found the object of his affections sobbing in her family’s garden. He knelt down next to her and she explained to him what had happened, leaning against his shoulder for comfort. When she finished her tale, he offered to stay the night; remembering the fate of the tall sister, she quickly pulled away. When he realized the reason for her discomfort, he clarified — he hadn’t meant anything untoward, he just hated to think of her sleeping alone in the empty cottage.”

“Aw,” Harley said. “I’d say that was sweet if it wasn’t obvious that it's going to end terribly.”

“The sister accepted, fearful of the prospect herself. They ate dinner in somber silence. The baker’s son had brought a loaf of sweet bread for them to share, and though the smell of it disgusted her she had a slice with her greens. He tactfully turned down her offer of the bitter leaves, instead filling himself on the bread. The perfect gentleman, he laid his coat on the floor next to her bed when they laid down for the night; but when his beloved woke up shaking and trembling, he was unable to stop himself from climbing up to hold her. She wept into his arms, and when his words of reassurance had finally eased her agony, she kissed him — just a soft press to his lips, reciprocated gently in kind, before both of them fell soundly asleep.” 

Harley didn’t say anything, just stared at Ivy as she waited for her to continue.

“When the final sister woke up, the baker’s son was cold in her arms,” Ivy said quietly. “She wanted to cry, but when she tried she found she had exhausted all of her tears. Instead, she carried her lover out to the garden, where she buried him amongst the bitter greens. And then she left. For months she wandered the countryside, never eating, and she grew thinner and more wan with each town she passed through. She never spoke to anyone, never accepted a comforting word, and _never_ allowed a friendly touch. Eventually she died, her body withered and languid, curled up on a bench where she’d only meant to spend the night.”

“Ouch,” Harley muttered, wrapping her arms around herself.

“The folk of the town buried her in the field behind the church; they left no marker or tombstone, not knowing what to inscribe if they did. But they never forgot the spot where they buried her, as from the grave bloomed a plant covered with thorns, with petals like soft velvet. The plant’s true feature was its leaves, however; bitter, green, and more poisonous than anything the town’s inhabitants had ever encountered before. They taught their children to stay away from the flower, and the three sisters never caused anyone any trouble ever again.”

They were silent, for a moment. Harley seemed to be expecting something more.

“Uh, holy shit, Red,” Harley said eventually, apparently realizing there would be no more story forthcoming. “Where the hell did you get that one from? Creepy plant people anonymous?”

“My father,” Ivy said, her tone void of emotion. “He used to tell it to me, sometimes. When I was younger.” 

Harley stared at her girlfriend, considering, before moving in to kiss her full on the lips.

“Well, you were right,” Harley said when she finally backed away. “It wasn’t a good story, and I didn’t like it.” She smiled. “But thanks for telling it to me anyway.”

Ivy smiled back. Sometimes Harley really did know just what to say. 

“Hey, why don’t we just break into Crane’s current place?” Harley said, jumping to her feet. “He always has a bunch of fun horror movies laying around. He probably won’t even notice we were there if we don’t take more than five.”

“Sounds like fun,” Ivy said, rising herself. “Maybe we can use him as Bat bait while we’re at it.”

“Now _that’s_ a plan,” Harley giggled. She grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Now, sit tight chickadee! If you don’t cause any trouble while we’re gone, we might even let you pick what movie we watch first.”

The two women left the lair arm in arm, leaving a very annoyed Robin wrapped up in vines behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Ivy's story is loosely inspired by "The Poison Eaters," a short story by Holly Black. Black's version is a political intrigue about a man who kidnaps girls and makes them poisonous so that he can marry them to his enemies, so it goes to quite different places (although is definitely worth a read). But I thought the base idea of "a father feeds his children poison, and they become poisonous as well" was a metaphor for child abuse that worked really well for Ivy and her canon relationship with her dad.


End file.
